Black Widow
by pipenerd
Summary: “Heav’n has no rage like love to hate turn’d, Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.” William Congreve, “The Mourning Bride”, 1697. Darkfic. MM/TRLV, mention of HP/LV. Oneshot.


**Dedication:**ToArbor Vitae, who asked the question, and pre-raphaelite1, who introduced me to Minerva for the first time.

**Hugs to: **My beta, hobtheknife, for patiently reading, perceptive commentary and enduring my mood swings. **Description:**Harry Potter fanfic ; AU, Slash

**Pairs:** MM/TR, HP/LV

**Spoilers: **SS, CoS, PoA, GoF.

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Slash, people eaten by monsters off-screen.

**Disclaimer:**J.K. Rowling created and owns Harry Potter. looks in mirror Nope, not her. Rights are held by JKR, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic. Warner Brothers and goodness knows who else. Not profiting, just enjoying.

"Heav'n has no rage like love to hate turn'd, Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned." William Congreve, "The Mourning Bride", 1697.

_Minerva sat down at her dressing table and regarded her time-ravaged reflection in the glass with detachment. When she held her head __just so, _she could almost recognize the lovely young witch who had once attended Hogwarts. 

_In those days, boys had done brave and foolish things in hope of winning her notice. But, Minerva had been as aloof and disinterested in such nonsense as the goddess for whom she'd been named. She'd weighed their actions, found them lacking, and pursued her own interests._

_There was one boy, though, who had been different. Darkly handsome, not of her House, he had watched her, measuring her worth. She had been fascinated…_

She sighed, and began to brush her long hair, its once-lustrous strands now as faded as her youth.

_She'd instinctively known how to impress him, Transfiguring paper clips into razor blades, and drops of her blood into poisonous spiders. He had rewarded her with a smile and whispered an invitation. That night, she'd met him on the grounds, Gryffindor courage flouting the curfew, and remained defiantly at his side as the Forest closed in around them. Acromantulae had crept from secret lairs, sensing the approach of prey as their webs were disturbed. Minerva had nervously drawn her wand, but he had smiled scornfully and cast a curse. The gigantic spiders had bowed to them, then capered and climbed in a horrible parody of circus antics. Minerva had turned to him in silent adoration. His smile had been ironic, his dark eyes seeming to flash with a crimson light. Then he had seized her, his fingers biting into her shoulders as they kissed…_

She set down her brush much harder than she'd intended, and, with a frown, picked up her comb. She drew it through her silken hair, parting it with painful precision.

_She had been the first of his followers, his unseen ally, as he'd carefully developed his strategy and gathered his forces. With art more subtle than magic itself, she had teased secrets from the unsuspecting, stolen the words that disabled the barriers in his way, and discovered secrets for him to use to coerce the cooperation of those who would not willingly join him. She had never told him she loved him, nor pressed him for promises, thinking they were unnecessary between two such as they. Yet she nurtured a secret hope that when he had become the Dark Lord, with the world at his feet, she would reign as Dark Lady at his side._

_He'd asked her to meet him in the Forest that Hallow's Eve, and had described his plan. Minerva had thought him brave to single-handedly confront the foes who had defeated him twice before. She was confident in his power, and, eyes shining in the darkness, clasped his hand and vowed to await his return. But hours had passed and the moon had set, and still he did not appear. She made her way back to the castle, where she heard disturbing things whispered. Although she knew the precautions he had taken, her hands were clumsy as she searched school files for the information she needed. Next of Kin: Petunia Dursley. Address: Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey._

_When she arrived, the house was dark, the street deserted. Transforming into the shape of a tabby, she set herself to watch. Owls crossed the night sky, delivering the news to a grateful world. She knew, deep in her heart, that he could not be dead. It was a mantra she repeated to comfort herself as she crouched, waiting. At last, a shape appeared at the end of the street and the lamps illuminating the neighbourhood were extinguished, one by one, as his greatest foe approached. She resumed human form, carefully arranging her expression into one of concern as he calmly confirmed the rumours. When the half-giant had arrived with the Potter's baby, she'd stretched out her arms to take it – but Dumbledore had stepped between them. When he looked up from the fussy infant cradled in his arms, she saw that a shadow of doubt had appeared in the eyes that regarded her above the half-moon spectacles, and she realized that somehow, he'd apprehended the curse poised on her lips as she'd reached for the child. Turning to him with a wounded expression, like a wronged godmother in an old story, she had bestowed a malicious wish upon the baby: May you know misery and despair until the Dark Lord's return._

_After that, her conduct had been blameless. She had carried her torch through the long, lonely years, nurturing the hope that somehow he had survived. She imbedded herself in the castle of his enemies, increasing her status among them and growing strong in her own power. She recommended Severus Snape, one of his youngest followers, when he applied for a teaching position, and although she never revealed her own loyalties to him, befriended and mentored him against future use. _

_The Potter child had entered the school, and as Head of his House, she had deliberated her proper role. The Quidditch coach noticed the child's potential as a player, and Minerva agreed to allow him to play. He was careless enough, she thought, that a moment of distraction might prove fatal. In the meantime, all unbeknownst to her, the one she loved struggled for survival in the Forest outside her door. Quirrell, not she, had assisted him then, and Quirrell had paid for his lukewarm allegiance with his life._

_Then, the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and the Heir of Slytherin proclaimed by a student in the possession of one of his Horcruxes. But when that episode was over, Minerva had never even glimpsed his ghostly vestige. After the Tri-wizard Tournament, she exulted secretly in the knowledge that he had regained corporeal form. She remained vigilant during the War that followed, prepared to lead the attack on his enemies from within. But he'd chosen others to act as his agents and no message from him ever reached her. When Dumbledore had been killed, and when Snape had fled, she'd thought, "Now, now he must send word to me!" She'd stepped into the position of Headmistress, ready at a moment's notice to dismantle the wards, disarm the enchantments and throw open the gates of the school for his triumphant entrance – yet her hero did not return to her._

_The Potter's son had left school after his sixth year, to follow, as she thought, the path to destruction laid down by his parents. She heard rumours of his encounters with the Dark Lord, their subtle feints and ripostes: a Horcrux destroyed, a friend killed. She struggled with an impulse to dessert her post and to search out her beloved. But each time she made up her mind to do so, the face in her mirror reminded her that she was no longer the girl who had stood defiantly at his side so many years ago…_

She gathered her hair in her hands and began to twist it, pulling sharply until her scalp tingled and burned. Yesterday, the Muggle-born witch, Granger, had arrived unexpectedly at the school on a matter, she'd said, of urgent importance. Minerva had endured the nervous chattering about her engagement to young Weasley and the tedious details of her job search, curious at the young woman's reticence to come to the point of her visit. It required but little finesse to finally extract the information that she had found so disturbing.

The evening before, Potter had packed his belongings and announced to his friends that he was in love, and, as far as he was concerned, the War was over. Something had changed, a balance had shifted, and he had made a truce with his enemy. Granger thought it probably had something to with the mental bond between them. Here, the young woman balked, completely at a loss for words. Minerva became annoyed and pressed her until she blurted the rest of it: his lover was Lord Voldemort. Minerva's words turned dry as cobwebs in her mouth, and they sat together in silence, pondering the future.

Minerva knew he was deliberately punishing her, had taken her subtle manoeuvrings for inaction and disloyalty. He knew all too well the seductions to which a Gryffindor would respond, and that selecting a boy would sharpen the rebuke. Once, she had found Harry's resemblance to him a source of amusement. Now, she visualized them together, his mouth crushing Harry's, eliciting that lust which abolished old loyalties and destroyed once-cherished ideals. There was no suggestion of tenderness between them in her imagination; it was too much now for her to believe that he could actually love anyone, and blatantly obvious that he had corrupted Harry simply to spite her.

Minerva began to coil her hair tightly, high atop her head. Granger's idle gossip had brought a flood of emotions, and the seeds that were strewn on the fertile ground of her bitterness grew into a plan of retribution. Last night, she had ventured into the Forbidden Forest, alone and fearless, to the nest of the Great Ones. The old chief had long since grown dotard and had been overthrown. Their new leader was a matriarch who appreciated that which must be done when a mate has lasted beyond his use. Minerva promised her meat for her children, and returned to the school to throw open the gates and disarm the protections. When the carnage was over, Granger and, for good measure, Slughorn, were comatose and trussed in strong, silken bonds. She left them hanging as her bait in the Chamber of Secrets.

She hoped Harry was true to form, and would rush in with his usual impetuosity to rescue his friends. When she had finished with him, Lord Voldemort would find the young man considerably reduced in both charm and utility. If they arrived together…well, she had wasted too many years in speculation and manoeuvring. She would wait for them, at the centre of the web of deceit she had woven, and consume them all with her fury.

Minerva reached for a hairpin and paused again to regard her reflection in the glass. She'd kept her hair long all these years, refusing to cut the length in the obscure hope that, on his return, he would find her as beautiful and strong and loyal as he'd left her on that final night. She opened her fingers and watched as her hair fell away, twisting and dissolving into a diaphanous veil of silk. Minerva reached for her scissors and lifted a strand: time to sever the last of her illusions.


End file.
